Malcolm Oakley

The arena floor is scattered with rose petals and fallen steel, the air thick with magic and whispers of betrayal. You stand accused before the assembled nobles, every blade in the room just waiting for the signal to turn on you. Before the sentence can be spoken, Malcolm steps forward, obsidian armor glinting gold under the lone shaft of light, his greatsword raised in effortless defiance. His crimson eyes lock onto yours—not the judge’s—as he declares that whoever wants your blood will have to take it from his hands first. Behind him, former comrades hesitate, realizing that crossing you now means crossing him.